Rhaella's fingers were clasped together while she prayed. The Sept of Baelor was a massive building, the center of the Faith of the Seven in King's Landing and probably in Westeros as well, though some considered the Starry Sept in Oldtown to be the true center.
The Queen Mother—would she still be called that? The Queen Grandmother? The Dowager Queen? Now there were two other queen dowagers. The thought filled her eyes with tears. Oh, how Rhaella wished to stop drinking water, to let her body dry out, so that when her body could no longer produce tears, she would finally stop crying. How could the gods have been so cruel as to take her eldest son, Rhaegar?
Her face was marked by huge dark circles and tear-stained furrows; her hair was covered with a black silk cloth. She did not let others see her face; she wore a black veil to cover herself.
She felt uncomfortable in the Sept of Baelor. She was a dragon praying to gods who hated dragons. She, who was the product of generations of incest, a practice that continued, and that her children would continue to maintain their pure bloodline. Her children—those who remained alive. She brought a hand to her chest.
She didn't want to be there, but that was where Rhaegar's body lay.
The Targaryens had the custom of cremating their dead, but that was not the case with Rhaegar. The reason was political. Aegon seemed closer to the faith of R'hllor with the red priest following him; Rhaella tried to convince him to set aside the faith of R'hllor, not to give them power, as Rhaegar had done. Not because she was a fervent believer in the Seven, but for the sake of stability.
Aegon ignored her, as he had been doing lately. With the faith unsettled, Rhaella decided to leave the funeral rites to the Faith of the Seven. Was it just politics? She was sure it wasn't; she wanted to keep her son in the flesh, to prolong the farewell a little longer.
The maesters had preserved the body as best they could, and it had served its purpose. Rhaegar, from a distance, looked like a sleeping prince, a malnourished prince, with sunken cheeks and pale skin. At that point, he was more bone than flesh, but he still hadn't decomposed as corpses usually do more than six months after death.
The High Septon called it a miracle of the Seven, saying that the gods wished to preserve the king's body so it might be admired. That was why it was not in the crypts, but in a hall where nobles could pay their respects.
However, up close, the stench of decay could not be dispelled; no matter how much perfume or aromatic oils they used, a faint trace of the stink always lingered.
Rhaella didn't care; he was her son.
"Queen Mother Rhaella," she heard a voice behind her.
'Ah, so that's what they'll call me?' she thought. They had to add her name to her title so as not to confuse her with Lyanna or Elia. The House of the Dragon has half as many living queen dowagers as there have been kings named Aegon throughout history.
"Your Grace," she greeted him, rising from her kneeling position. She looked at the crown on his head; she still found it hard to accept that Aegon was king, not Rhaegar. Oh, how she regretted that last fight with his oldest son.
Aegon was there, standing before her. He glanced at the funeral bier where his father lay; a flash of something the Queen Mother could not identify shone in his eyes.
"You can call me Aegon, as you used to," he said, with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Isn't it time for the council to meet? Can you afford to waste your time with a widow?" she said with more venom than she intended. She was upset by how Aegon wanted to continue cremating Rhaegar's body; she wasn't ready yet.
"The council can survive without me," he said, softening his expression.
"Yes, you're right," Rhaella nodded, "just as they survived your father," she added at the end, looking at her son's face; she wished she could put flesh back under his skin so he could be himself again.
"They nearly tore his head off with brute force," said Aegon, recalling how the skin had torn.
"Do you think I want to hear that?" Rhaella admonished him, but he remained unperturbed.
"Few people could pull off something like that. Besides, no trace of any Ironborn was found inside Casterly Rock. Someone who can come and go from the castle, and who also possesses such incredible strength," he let the idea hang in the air. He looked at his grandmother, who was pressing her lips together tightly.
"It wasn't the Ironborn?" Rhaella asked, her voice a whisper. She never considered that possibility; she can only think of the son she lost, not in intrigues. Aegon leaned in toward her to hear her clearly. "Then… who was it?" Rhaella's mind went straight to the Lannisters; after all, it had happened in their castle.
"I can only think of my uncle," Aegon said. Rhaella stood frozen for a few seconds.
"You're just talking nonsense," she said, turning to leave.
"Rhaegar was planning to pressure Jaehaerys into handing over one of his dragons… with his death, that plan comes to nothing," he continued; his grandmother had her back to him.
"It wasn't him," Rhaella said with certainty, but her feet stopped moving.
"Jaime told me that few people could twist a neck like that—Jaehaerys is one of them… and the king's death was quite convenient for him," said Aegon, pressing on while Rhaella remained frozen in place.
"A Lannister whispered in your ear, and you turned your back on your own family?" Rhaella spun around quickly. For a moment, she considered Aegon's words to be true—that it was possible Jaehaerys… she hated herself for thinking such a thing.
How could Rhaegar have been murdered by Jaehaerys, who had helped Viserys when even she didn't believe in him?
"Jaehaerys isn't who he seems to be," Aegon looked her coldly in the eyes.
Rhaella's hand moved faster than her mouth; a small crack echoed through the room. She didn't strike Aegon's cheek squarely due to the difference in height, but her fingers still grazed his face. She moved his head just enough to knock his crown askew.
"Aegon," she regretted it the moment she did.
Then she felt a stinging pain in her cheek, followed by another sharp one. She fell to the floor; her lost veil left her face exposed.
Aegon looked at her then. Her face was pale and gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes and bloodshot eyes. Her cheek turned red, and blood began to ooze out. The Queen Mother looked at her grandson's hand; a gold ring gleamed on his index finger—it had cut into her flesh. 'That was a gift from Myrcella,' she recalled. The Lannister gold had made her bleed, for the second time. When she looked up, for a brief moment, she saw Aerys in his grandson. Once again, she felt like a maiden at the mercy of a tyrant.
"Grandmother, I didn't mean to…," for a moment, Aegon's face turned miserable, like that of a child who had accidentally knocked over a plate of food. Those seconds softened Rhaella's heart.
But the very next second, Aegon turned away, pressing his hands against Rhaegar's funeral bier. He bowed his head; the crown fell to his father's feet.
Rhaella couldn't process it at that moment. Both had given in to their impulses; she had tried to strike him to defend her son, and he, Aegon, was a child who had just lost his father. She rose slightly, picking up the veil from the floor and placing it over her head; her face was already a mess from weeping so long for Rhaegar, and the bruise only made her wish to sew the veil directly onto her skin.
"Aegon… you can, you can cremate your father," she said, hoping that might ease her grandson's pain. She left without waiting for a reply; a guard following her looked at her with pity, recalling how the royal guard had looked at her when Aerys was king.
But Aegon wasn't Aerys; he can't be like him.
—-------
Aegon didn't answer; he let his grandmother leave.
Looking at the body, his eyes lingered on the neck. A red bandage adorned it. The maesters had placed the bandage and poured wax to seal it.
But Aegon—he had seen his father's body. He had fallen on his back; his right hand was bent unnaturally, as were both his legs. A stone had split his skull from behind. The maesters had done an incredible job of preserving it.
Or perhaps... it wasn't just the maesters?
He didn't know why he struck his grandmother, nor why he blamed Jaehaerys. It wasn't that Aegon doubted his uncle had killed his father, but he didn't blame him either. Every day, his mind grew more confused. He knows the reason: he wanted to stop... he wanted to jump from the tallest tower in the Red Keep. But every time he tries, he can't find the courage to do so.
So undecided...
"I wanted to be different from you… Rhaegar," said the young king as he picked up the crown from his father's feet.